Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Germ Growers: An Australian story of adventure and mystery by Robert Potter (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Robert Potter
Book online «The Germ Growers: An Australian story of adventure and mystery by Robert Potter (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📖». Author Robert Potter
All this, however, was by no means enough to account for Bomero’s evident perturbation of mind. He was undoubtedly a clever and cool fellow, and one of much resource; there was abundance of water and food, we could not be far out of the track, and we had plenty of time, for as far as I could judge by the astronomical indications, we were a great many days and even weeks too soon; and the weather, barring the clouds, was everything that could be wished.
Jack and I talked it over, and Jack reminded me of Gioro’s tale of the “dibble dibble all same white man” that Bomero had seen in the far west. “Depend upon it,” said Jack, “he thinks he is coming upon them again. The place, as Gioro said, was ‘more far’ than the place of meeting for the great Corrobboree, and he thinks that he is now getting ‘more far’ than there.”
“And what of the dibble dibble that he saw there?” said I.
“Oh, that’s the point,” said Jack. “No doubt they were white men; some pioneers from the north coast, perhaps, or maybe the men on some outlying [80] station of some western squatter’s run, and if so we shall get back to civilisation sooner than we think.”
“I don’t see much in it, Jack,” said I; “we’re not far enough west for that; if we were on the head-waters of the western slope we might be on the look-out for white pioneers, but I am afraid we are near as far from there as from the telegraph wire. Bomero’s ‘dibble dibble’ was either a pure invention or the suggestion of a dream, or if he did come across white men he must have been farther west than he is here.”
On the morning of the fourteenth day Bomero harangued the men who were with him; he stood upon a veritable stump, a huge tree near the creek had been undermined by the flood waters and had fallen and lay along the ground roots and all. Bomero stood upon it and spoke, Jack and I stood by and listened, Gioro stood between us; he was in a state of great excitement, and he threw in every now and then a word of interpretation for our benefit, but indeed, by this time, we were able to follow the speaker fairly enough ourselves. It very soon became quite evident that Gioro’s tale of “dibble dibble” was at the bottom of our trouble; it was quite evident also that the spirit of the prophet was no longer subject to the prophet. Bomero pointed westward, where the clouds were now slowly [81] rising from some not very distant hills, and what he said was to this effect.
There was a hill away west where certain doleful creatures dwelt. He had once been very near there, and they had tried to take his life. They had tried to spear him through the air, and he who never feared men, feared them. He should know in a few minutes if that hill yonder was their hill; and if it was then he and his people must run and run till they got well out of sight of that hill. They had missed the way to the great Corrobboree, but that was no matter; they would easily find it again, and there was plenty of time yet before the red star and the little stars would be gone. If they saw when the clouds rose (and they were now rising) that the hill was not their hill, then they would stay where they were to-day, and the witch fellows would dance the witch dance until all was clear, and on the next day they would go back to where the women were, and then they would strike the track, and be the first at the meeting-place. But if when the clouds rose, and they were now rising, they saw three peaks, a tall one in the middle, a crooked one on one side, and a straight one on the other, then Bomero and Bomero’s men must run, run, run, and never stop, except to breathe, while any one [82] of the three peaks was to be seen. Let the black man knock his brains out with his waddy, or let the white man spear him with his fire spear, but the devils that rode through the air on clouds, faster than eagles, were worse than any black men or white men.
Bomero was evidently no longer master of himself or of his men. Whatever the cause of it was, there was a dreadful panic imminent, and no one could tell what was going to happen.
Just then the clouds lifted quite away from the hill, and there, sure enough, were the three peaks, the tall one in the middle, and the crooked one and the straight one on either side.
A low murmur burst from the men, and Bomero uttered a frightful howl, and plunged away madly round a hill that rose gently from the creek, and right on into the forest. All the men ran after him, most of them howling and shrieking; and my horse, which hung by the bridle to a branch close by, started, and snorted, and broke his rein, and rushed away before them at full gallop.
The catastrophe was so sudden that our breath seemed to be taken away, and I don’t know how many minutes passed before either spoke. I know that every man of the blacks had got clean out of [83] sight, and my horse, too, and there was as dead a silence as before the world was made, and still there was not a word from either of us. Then Jack said in a hollow voice:
“Why wasn’t the horse hobbled, Bob?”
“Why, Jack, I had just taken the hobbles off, and made him ready for the road.”
“Never mind, old fellow, I hardly know what I said; Gioro will come back.”
“Yes,” I said, “Gioro will come back.”
And then, as if our confidence in Gioro’s fidelity cleared the air, we sat down and lit our pipes.
I don’t know how much time passed, it seemed to be hours, but it couldn’t have been near an hour, and Jack and I never exchanged a word. Then, sure enough, we saw Gioro coming, and he was leading my horse. I saw him first, and I jumped up and shouted for joy. Then Jack jumped up, but the shout died on his lips, and he said only, “There is something the matter.”
And so there was. Both Gioro and the horse were wounded, and the wounds were deadly, for the spears that inflicted them were poisoned. The horse died first. I took Gioro’s head on my lap, and gave him a few drops of water. He told me that he had [84] caught the horse by the bridle in passing, and that then he stopped and returned. He had not forgotten us, he said, not for a moment, nor would he have started at all if the horse had not started. The horse had stopped several times, and when he had come up with him had gone on again. But at last he had secured him and was returning. But several spears were flung at him, and many missed him, but the big men who had watched and dogged him took better aim, and struck both horse and man. At first he thought nothing of it, but presently he knew that the spears were poisoned, and now he must die.
“Take care,” said the poor fellow, almost with his last breath, “keep away, kill you too, like Gioro; back, back to the big long wire.”
He died quite easily, and I felt as he lay in my arms that it would be the best thing that could happen us if the poisoned arrows of the blacks had made an end of us as well as of him. The poor fellow’s faithfulness would have helped us to face death without flinching.
We found a large hole in the earth where a tree had been uprooted by a storm, and there, with the help of his boomerang and our own knives, we managed to give him decent burial. We both fell on our knees for [85] a few minutes, but no words passed our lips, although I am sure our hearts were full enough.
Then we stood up, and with one impulse held out a hand each to the other. The grip that followed was a silent English grip. But it meant that we knew that our case was desperate, and that we would stand by one another to the last.
[Footnote 2: The red star is certainly Aldebaran, and the little stars the Pleiades. I could not for a long time understand “the one white star.” There is at present no large white star in opposition to Aldebaran. I first thought that Arcturus might be meant, and that the feast had perhaps come down from a period when Arcturus was a white star. But I now think that Spica Virginis is “the one white star.” I think that by “rises,” or more properly, “has risen,” Gioro meant “has culminated;” for Gioro usually spoke of “rising” and “setting” as “coming” and “going;” so if he had meant to speak of stars in opposition he would have said, “when the white star comes and the red star goes.” Spica culminates about the time that Aldebaran sets; also there are no large stars near Spica, and this may be why it is called “the one white star.” I think I have read that some people for the same reason call it “the lonely one.” Gioro probably meant, “When the lone white star has culminated, and the red star and the little stars are set.”—R. E.] Return to text
LEFT ALONE.
All the events described at the close of the last chapter succeeded one another very rapidly. I do not think that four hours in all could have passed from the beginning of Bomero’s last harangue until Jack and I stood together over Gioro’s grave. The sun had not reached the meridian; the atmosphere was perfectly clear; and the triple peak which had been the signal of so much disaster stood out clear and well-defined in the west.
What were we to do now? Were we to stay here and die like starved bandicoots when the first drought should come on? That was the question in both our minds, and that was the form in which Jack expressed it. “Let us get some food first,” said I, “and then we shall see. Thank God it is easy enough still to get food.” We soon lit a fire and shot some duck, and [87] with the help of some of the wild fruit already mentioned and the water of the creek we did well enough. Then we talked over the situation, and it soon became clear that only two courses were open to us if we were to return to civilisation, or even to live. The one course was to push backward by the way we came. And if it had not been for the last two days’ journey we should probably have chosen that way without hesitation. And even now if we could be sure of not meeting the blacks again, I think we might have tried it. It was true that we might wait here long enough to make sure that the blacks would have gone westward, but all the while we should wait, the tracks and the other waymarks would be gradually becoming obliterated. Besides, it was certain that we could not live by snaring birds and spearing fish for food as the blacks could, and our powder and shot would soon be done. Our better hope seemed to lie in the chance of finding white men somewhere near, and the strange proceedings of Bomero seemed surely to indicate the near presence of white men. He must have met some pioneers from the west coast. Such men were often known to treat the blacks as if they were mere wild beasts, and it seemed not unlikely that some act of reckless cruelty on the part of the white men might [88] have been witnessed by him, or, at least,
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